


At Three in the Morning

by tearsxonxeyelashes



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:29:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tearsxonxeyelashes/pseuds/tearsxonxeyelashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras just wanted to keep Eponine of the streets, that was all he wanted, but not all that he got. Set in the lead up to the barricades.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

She still works the streets, even though it's been months since he let her stay. The money she collects in her line of work lays abandoned in a pile on the kitchen counter. She says she is paying her rent, but he refuses to touch the money. Though it's not like that stopes her.

He knows her routine by heart now. She arrives home just before three in the morning. He knows she tries to be quiet but is woken by the soft sound of her closing the front door. He would rather be woken life this than sleep until he wakes, terrified that she hasn't returned home. On the nights when this would happen (mostly at the start of their arrangement as now he was unable to sleep right through the night,) he would lumber out of his warm bed and over to the lounge in the living room where he would always find her, curled up in a ball and sound asleep.

After he wakes to the sound of a closing door, he counts three seconds before he hears several coins drop to the counter. It makes him cringe. He would rather she return home empty handed as it would mean she had no business. She encompasses everything he was fighting for, but he couldn't even keep the girl he was living with from spending her nights walking the streets. She encompasses every way his revolution is failing. The rich (or at least some of them) were willing to help; it was the poor who were unwilling to listen.

He has tried many ways to make her stay. He served dinner at ten thirty, so she would eat at lightening speed and be gone by eleven. He's tried bringing her to the café, but he would look over in her direction and some time during the night (he's not quite sure exactly when) she vacates and returns home as always, just before three. He's even told her not to go but she just stares blankly at him "Monsieur Enjolras, I will not owe you anything" and without another word she leaves.

She thinks he is asleep and tiptoes into his room and then into the bathroom. She prepares her bath in the dark, ever careful not to wake him. He hears every pot of water as it enters the tub. He hears her tattered clothes hit the floor and her body slip into the warm water. He listens to the soft, relaxing movement of the water as she tries to scrub herself clean from the night's activities. But she's no longer ashamed of her actions. Rather she is resigned to the fact that this is her life, and there really isn't a whole lot she can do about it. She doesn't believe it can or will get any better. For the first time in years she has a warm place to sleep, eats at least three times a day and bathes regularly. To her, this is luxury.

One night he hears the soft sound of muffled sobs coming from inside the bathroom. At first he just listens. The sound makes him feel completely hopeless, as if he couldn't even dream to comprehend. And the truth is, it does. He doesn't understand the people he so valiantly fights for. He tries his best to block her cries out, but just as it seems to stop she starts again, possibly crying harder than ever.

He rises and knocks on the door; the girl behind it immediately falls silent. He enters, eyes avert to the ground to preserve her modesty. She is silent. He looks up to see the outline of her neck and head in the moonlight. He slides down and sits in the doorway.

"Mademoiselle, are you alright?"

Silence

"Monsieur, I am terribly sorry for waking you, I promise Monsieur it will not happen again." He can't help but notice how terrified she sounds. Her voice quivers, as she speaks, no louder than a whisper.

"It's quite alright, as long as your home safely" he begins to get up, sensing that she isn't very comfortable in his presence.

"Thank you Monsieur" her voice trembles and he can't help but wonder if the girl is terrified of him, and if so, why?

She tries her best to tiptoe out of the bathroom and bedroom without waking the sleeping man. She is almost out when she hears him whisper her name, his voice full of sleep. She stops, completely frozen "stay here tonight". She is initially confused, she stays in his apartment every night but then it dawns on her. He is on the right side of the bed, not the centre where he usually sleeps, and there is a pillow on the left.

Tentatively she walks over to the bed and slips between the soft sheets. She lies there, awake, eyes wide open staring at the ceiling. She has only ever been invited into a man's bed for one reason. Perhaps Patria is no longer a suffice mistress for the marble leader. She can see his outline, faced away from her but she lies there, rigid, her eyes wide open. It is only when she hears the soft sound of his snores that she can relax, close her eyes and attempt to sleep. She can't help but think of how much warmth is generated when sleeping alongside another.

He notices this too when he wakes the next morning, but this thought is immediately replaced by another. He looks over at the tiny girl in his bed, her arms are covered in cuts and bruises, one of her eyes is turning a foul purple colour and her jaw is swollen. He then notices the hand marks around her neck. He feels sick. Rising quickly he calls for Joly, someone far more apt at tending to her wounds. They arrive back before she has woken and waits. Joly has a thousand questions that he doesn't ask, the main one being "so what is the girl doing at your house?" but Enjolras doesn't seem in the mood for talking.

When she finally wakes, Joly rushes in and asks her what happened. She just shrugs nonchalantly "Some guys like it rough."

Joly is surprised. He always knew Eponine was part of the Parisian underworld, but he had convinced himself that it was in a more innocent way – picking pockets and steeling bread. But there she was, lying before him, the true gritty side of Paris. The city, which they loved, the city, which they were fighting for, was eating this woman alive.

All he could do was prescribe bed rest and lots of it. As he goes to leave Enjolras is fumbling around for his wallet. Enjolras notices him eyeing the large amount of money just sitting abandoned on the counter "It's Eponine's" and for once Joly understand Enjolras and remains silent.

That night when she tries to leave he does her best to stop her. He quotes Joly, tries standing between her and the doorway until she threatens to knee him in a place causing the type of pain not even he can withstand. Her face is swollen; she is almost unrecognisable and is walking with a limp. She looks back at him and tries to smile "maybe someone will take pity on me" he doesn't reply. She pulls her coat tightly around her and leaves. He can't stand to look at her. It's one of the first times in his life he feels weak. He is angry with her for going but even angrier with himself for allowing her to leave.

That night he wakes as she arrives home, drops the money on the counter and bathes. Again, she has almost left his room when he invites her to sleep alongside him. Just like the previous night she waits to hear the soft sound of his snores before allowing herself to relax and eventually fall asleep.

Soon enough, they fall into this pattern.

One morning he rises early to buy a new dress for her. He has no idea about women's clothes so he calls on Courfeyrac for assistance. He immediately regrets it. He is badgered with a thousand questions, which he notices are all just variations of the same one "Who is she?"

If it were any of the boys other than Courfeyrac he would tell them that it was for his sister. But he went to school with Courfeyrac from the age of six. They were family friends and he knew that Enjolras was an only child. Eventually he snaps, "It's for Eponine."

Coufreyrac is shocked, confused and now has even more questions to ask than before. But he doesn't. Over the years he has learnt not to push Enjorlas on topics he does not want to divulge much information. So he helps her pick a dress. They choose a white one, with some pale pink stitching. It is simple and inexpensive but Enjolras is happy that she won't be walking around the house in a dress which has gaping holes from where men have attempted to literally tear it from her body.

"So how long have you two been… together" Courfeyrac finally musters up the courage to ask as they walk back to their apartment.

"We're not" Enjolras replies shortly "She lives in my apartment, it's better than the streets."

When he arrives home she's still asleep. He leaves the dress on his desk and goes to university. He arrives home to see her wearing the dress. It is far too big and hangs loose around her shoulders and waist but he cant help but think how she no longer looks like a starving street urchin. His hopes rise and he thinks she might stay in for the night. After dinner they retire to the lounge, each picking a book to read before they separately curl up on the lounge. But these hopes are quickly dashed. Not long after the sun sets she rises and disappears into his room. She emerges in her street clothes and leaves without saying a word. He can't stand to look at her.

He waits, unable to sleep until she arrives home. He decides to read ahead in some of his university books and quickly turns the lamp off, pretending to sleep when he hears her keys in the door. After bathing she crawls into his bed, no longer needing to be prompted and he lies there, enjoying the warmth that radiates from her body. Eventually he turns over, she is sleeping, her figure illuminated by the moonlight and he can't help but stare at how beautiful she is.

Months pass and there is so much money that it has taken up the whole counter. While fetching them tea he accidentally knocks some of it to the ground. She notices the look of disgust on his face and how he walks past without even as much as a second glance or an attempt to pick it up.

She hates him.

When he arrives back at the lounge she hisses at him to get away from her. He tries to comfort her and her hisses become shrieks as she darts to the other side of the room as far away as she can possibly get from him.

He is confused, so confused in fact that he considers going to call on Joly but he can't help but feel that whatever she is feeling can't be healed by something in Joly's briefcase so he just sits there, confused, asking her what's wrong but receiving no answers.

She is as fickle as his revolution, which at times seems like a certain success and at others like a march to his death. He almost feels the same way about her. Sometimes he thinks he is fixing her, perhaps guiding her to a life off the streets and at other times he thinks she is driving them both to an early death.

Why can't he just accept what she is doing for him she asks herself? Every disgusted glance down at the money is a disgusted glance down at her. Why can't he just accept what she is doing for him? Why can't he just accept her?

That night they eat in silence, well; she remains silent as he tries to ask her what's wrong. He truly has no idea what set her off. At sunset she changes and leaves wordlessly. He shakes his head, he's so confused.

That night she returns home, she tiptoes past his room and bathes. When she tries to leave he calls out to her, but she ignores him. He hears the door shut and assumes she has chosen to sleep on the couch. That night he can't sleep. He lies awake in his ice-cold bed, wondering if she is missing his presence as much as he is missing hers. He rolls over, wishing to see her figure next to him in the moonlight but the bed is empty.

It feels like it has been hours when he finally decides to rise. It's still dark outside and he takes a few of the blankets off his bed and wonders out to the living room. She is asleep on the large sofa and he tries his best to curl up next to her without waking her. He's never been this close to a woman. Her whole body is pressed against his and he wraps his arm around her tiny waist and buries his head in her neck. He feels her warmth radiate through him and he know then that he never want to go without it. He breathes in her scent, just soap and cleanliness but to him it is beautiful.

He doesn't know what this is. He doesn't even understand why he's there and his mind seems to be moving at a painfully slow pace. All he knows is that when she is gone he misses her. He can't sleep when she isn't with him but now, cramped on the sofa he can relax he can close his eyes and finally sleep.

He doesn't know what this is but right now, for once in his life, he isn't seeking answers.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before the barricades rise.

They walk home together, like every other night but tonight something is different. The boys usually walk in silence or talk in hushed voices as they put the final touches on their revolution, his revolution. Tonight is different. Most of them have had too much to drink. They reminisce over the years, laugh at high school pranks pulled and the looks on their parent's faces when they discovered their son's bold plans.

It was as if they were now content with dying, as if they had accepted it. Or rather, they were welcoming it with open arms, like an old friend who had been absent for many years.

The group dwindled down until it was just Enjolras and Combeferre, the chief and the guide.

"You have been awfully quite tonight" the latter turns to the former, grasping him firmly on the shoulder. The chief doesn't reply and the pair continue on their way.

It was Courfeyrac who suggested that they all walk home together, citing that Marius had been mugged three times in one week back when they first started attending the café. Of course it was Marius who had been robbed. He had the terrible habit of carrying so many coins in his coat pockets that even a deaf man could hear him chime as he walked down the street.

They had some of their best conversations when walking back from the café. It was where he had first discovered Jehan's love for Cicero and one of the only times he and Grantaire had actually had a conversation with the latter being completely sober. Grantaire told him about life in Aquitaine, how the division of wealth extended far beyond the streets of Paris, right down to the south of France. It was one of the few times Grantaire had spoken openly about the revolution, and it was the first time Enjolras saw Grantaire's passionate longing for change.

It seems like a lifetime ago now.

He never intended this, never wanted it. Enjolras never thought that his friends would take up arms alongside him, treat him as their leader and allow him to guide them to their graves. The knowledge of what he is doing rattles his core. He knows this revolution needs to happen. He knows it requires sacrifice. He is willing to make this sacrifice but a part of him wishes that his friends would just leave, abandon him and save themselves.

This was his cross to bear, not theirs.

He was expected to be the strong one, the man of marble but he was so unsure of how he would react if he were to see his friends fall around him. He had been planning the revolution for years, but it had always seemed like nothing more than a goal, something to aim for. But it had always been far away, somewhere in the unattainable distance. Now it was right in front of him. They were achieving his dreams and only now had he stopped to really consider the consequences of his actions.

He was the first of the group to proudly proclaim that he was prepared to die for France. In fact, they had toasted to their deaths just hours ago. But now, when he was almost all alone, just him and his thoughts that the full weight of his impending death hit him. Slowly at first and he was able to just brush it to the back of his mind and keep walking, but it kept building up until it felt like a pressure bottled up inside of him that he could barely walk, barely think straight.

"Eponine's still up" Combeferre comments, bringing Enjolras back from his thoughts.

They both stand before the apartment block, staring up at the dull yellow light which shines through the third floor window.

"Eponine's home" Enjolras is shocked, and the weight inside of him suddenly increases. He knows it is one of the last times she will ever see him alive.

Combeferre notes how the girl is not in Enjolras's living room but rather in his bedroom. Combeferre had noticed over the past few months how Enjolras had changes, just a little. In fact, Combeferre probably wouldn't have noticed these changes if Courfeyrac hadn't pointed them out to him.

It was one of the first nights Enjolras had bought her to the café. Her eyes lit up when she say a petit strawberry tart behind the counter, but she didn't say anything, she almost never did. Combeferre noticed how she would wait until Enjolras was completely engrossed in one of his speeches before she quickly rushed out of the café, careful to bring as little attention to herself as possible. It made Combeferre smile, the girl must have been far too tired or far to bored to sit though the full three hours – the average length of Enjolras's speeches.

As the boys left that night, Enjolras held the group up so that he could buy one of those small strawberry tarts. The boys teased him about his midnight sweet cravings and Courfeyrac nudged Combeferre and smiled at him knowingly. Since that night, every time they would leave the café he would stop to buy one of the pretty strawberry tarts and take it home.

But Combeferre was still unconvinced. This was Enjolras they were talking about here. The man who never cast a second glance at a woman, not even those who practically threw themselves at him. Combeferre could not believe it. It seemed impossible for Enjolras to be attracted to anything other than his revolution, let alone a woman.

It wasn't until they decided to go to the market a few months later that Combeferre realised that Courfeyrac was right.

Saturdays were when the markets came to Montmartre. There were plenty of markets in and around Paris but Courfeyrac insisted that the best fresh produce was to be found in Montmartre. It was also the furthest of all the Parisian markets from where they all resided.

He was expecting it to be just the three of them when the tiny girl appeared alongside Enjolras. Clad in a pale green dress with her hair in a high ponytail Combeferre would have never recognised her as Marius's street urchin. She looked completely different but most of all, she looked healthy. She walked silently alongside the three men as they feverishly discussed the revolution. He remembers that conversation well. Bossuet had forgotten to lock the back room of the café, where Enjolras had been stockpiling weapons. Most were stolen and he was going to have to start the tedious task again.

Enjolras was not pleased, but Combeferre noticed how his expression changed and softened when he turned to the girl. "Are you okay?" he asked worriedly when he notices that the girl has fallen a few paces behind them. She nods and quickens her step to keep up with the boys "are your feet sore? I am sorry; we should have gone somewhere closer."

The boys watch as she rests her hand on Enjolras's arm "shh, I was just admiring some of the art by the river." His worried features soften and he promises the girl will stop to take a closer look on their way home.

Both Combeferre and Courfeyrac try to hide the smiles on their faces as their friend becomes serious once more as the attempts to turn the conversation beck to the topic of revolution.

Courfeyrac nudges Combeferre in his side, his expression reading "I told you so" which he knew Enjolras would never pick up on.

It there was any doubt left in Combeferre's mind about the nature of Enjolras and Eponine's relationship, it was immediately erased once they arrived at the market.

Combeferre watched as the girl's eyes lit up when she saw the chocolate truffles. Enjolras would raise his eyebrows at her and ask if they were on their shopping list. She would shake her head and pout and he would quickly give in. She would squeal loudly, open up the chocolates and hand them out to the boys as Enjolras paid. This happened time and time again, when she wanted cherries, when she wanted cheese. The two boys watched on in awe as their friend, the man of marble would melt around this girl.

The incident repeated itself so often that Courfeyrac found himself wondering aloud that is he pouted more often during their meetings perhaps he would get his way more often – it didn't work.

They boys watched from a distance as Enjolras steered the girl towards a dress stand. For the first time that day she suddenly appeared shy, furiously shaking her head as he encourages her to pick her favourite item. They watch as after a while, and a lot of persuasion the girl chooses a deep purple garment. The boy smiles as he hands over the money and leans close to Eponine, smiling as he whispers something in her hear.

Courfeyrac stares in some sort of stunned awe before slowing asking no one in particular "Who is this man? I barely know him."

Meanwhile Combeferre just smiles, he has never seen his friend look so happy, so at peace before. Their young leader's face was almost permanently creased with worry lines and he was always abrupt and rushed in his actions, as if at any second his time would be up. This however was a side to Enjolras Comberferre had never seen before. For those three hours at the market with Eponine, his fierce, determined friend seemed human. That memory forever remained with Combeferre.

He leaves Enjolras standing outside his apartment and walks to his own apartment just a few blocks down. Enjolras doesn't notice him leave. The boy stares up at the light in the window for close to 15 minutes. He is no coward but is terrified at entering the small apartment building. He knows when he enters he will being a series of last times.

It will be the last time he will climb those stairs after a long night at the café.

It would be the last time he would check his bed to see if Eponine had stayed home – she never did.

And it would be the last time he would snake his arms around her boy, bury his face in her hair and breathe in her scent until it lulled him into a deep sleep.

He lumbers up each step. He climbs them with his back hunched, his hand gripping the rails. He looks like an elderly man, he feels like an elderly man.

At times he views himself as a martyr. As if bringing his beloved nation from monarchy to republic is his cross to bear.

Sometimes he is so engrossed in what he is doing he forgets that behind him are his friends; they trudge silently and willingly to their graves.

He imagines that he bursts into his apartment. He takes Eponine's hand and they leave, he doesn't know where they go, all he knows is that they run, far away from Paris and that they are together. Maybe his friends will arrive at the café tomorrow and choose not to act when they notice their leader's absence. He imagines that they go back to their lives prior to the Revolution, Joly finishes his medical degree and Marius moves back to his grandfather's home.

He wants to take her hand, he wants to run away and start new but he is not a coward and he will never abandon his revolution.

They both wish he would.

When he arrives home she quickly pulls a book out from under the bed, opens to a random page and pretends that she is reading. It takes her a few seconds to realise she is reading The Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen. She rolls her eyes, why didn't she take out a romance novel or a tragedy, then she may have had a realistic chance at masking her tears.

When he walks in, he almost wishes the DORMAC has bought her to tears but knows it isn't possible. She believes in his ideas but isn't as dedicated to the cause and definitely isn't that passionate about France. She has seen the underworld of this nation, the country at its worst. Deep down she doesn't care if it lives or dies she hates France but will never tell him that.

She puts the book down and stares at him, he stands in the doorway looking back at her. He notes how red her dark eyes are while she searches his face trying to read his emotions. It is fruitless; she will never be able to read his expressions.

She will never learn how to read his expressions

After an eternity she asks if he is hungry and leaves the room when he nods. He wishes he had stayed at one of the other boys' homes; it would have made getting up the next morning so much easier. Tonight was the first night she listened to him and stayed home. She tells herself she's making him happy but tonight she doesn't want to spend a second without him by her side.

She has a lifetime to be alone.

She returns with bread and cheese, it is all that is left in the house. He sits on the bed and eats; she leans against the bed head and just watches.

"Are you going to talk to me at all tonight?" He can barely manage to sound annoyed at her, he is far too tired.

"You don't want to hear what I have to say" she replies and stares up at the ceiling.

She's right but he doesn't tell her that, when he's finished she takes the plate and places it in the sink.

It takes weeks for her to finally wash it.

She returns to find him shirtless, his hair cascading down his shoulders "I need you to cut it for me" he says sitting down on the bed "it will just get dirty in the barricade."

She winces at the word as if it almost causes her physical pain to hear him speak so openly about his coffin. She kneels behind him, he can see her reflection in the window, she is running her hands gently through his hair and he savours the touch, he knows he will miss it when he's gone. She pulls his hair back and with just one cut she is finished and his distinctive long blond hair is in the bin. She sits back behind him and runs her hand over his now bare neck. He feels her lips caressing the spot where his hair used to fall, around his neck and to his collarbone.

"Eponine" he is breathless as she makes her way up to his jaw "don't give me a reason to stay."

He can feel her warm tears falling down his chest as she pulls away and leans back towards her side of the bed. "Why are you doing this to me?"

He sighs and turns to face her as he fumbles with his shirt "I'm doing this for you."

"Why?" tears are streaming down her face but her voice is soft "You've done all you need to do, finish it now, you don't need to go tomorrow. You've saved me; let someone else save the rest."

"You know that's not how it works."

The lie in bed, the dim yellow light illuminates their faces and they just stare at each other. She is trying to memorise his every feature, she never want to forget him and right now when he is lying there just looking at her things feel so peaceful, so still. His face is relaxed, for once without all the creases and worry lines and she thinks of how much she is going to miss him.

Everything about him.

His smile (on the rare occasion she actually saw it)

His touch, his hands, clumsy but gentle.

The way he would talk, always pausing to ensure that his tone hadn't turned condescending.

She prays that the revolution will be successful, that the people of Paris will rise but they know it is unlikely. People are starving; too busy trying to find where their next meal is coming from to bother listening to what the boy had to say. They both knew it but none of them dared to say aloud.

Only when she turns the light out and moves away from him does he finally reach out to touch her, his hand rests on her hip and relaxes when she doesn't hit him away. He is relieved; he didn't want her to be angry at him on the last night they would be together. He moves closer and pulls her close to him. He isn't hurting her but she notes that he has never held her so tight. He fingers are pressing into her skin as if he is trying to hold onto something that is slipping through his fingers. In his arms she feels safe. She never wants him to let go.

The next morning he wakes early, and slowly dresses. His red jacket is distinctive, it is what the people recognise, and it is what his troops will follow. He eats alone in the kitchen before returning back to their room. He leans up against the doorway and just observes. He is unsure whether to wake her or not. The girl is still sound asleep; he can see the dainty outline of her body under her nightgown. He wants to remember her like this, peaceful. There is a small smile on her face, like every morning when she wakes up and it's just one of the many things he loves about her.

He loves her but he knows that in this lifetime he has a greater calling. He is a martyr; he has a revolution to lead. She was never meant to get in the way.

He walks around to her side of the bed, up close she is so beautiful that he almost cannot tear himself away. This was never meant to happen to him. Falling in love was for the other men, women, lust, love and desire just a few months ago seemed so foreign to him but now he can barely remember a time when Eponine along with his revolution were not at the centre of his life.

He shakes his head. This was never meant to happen.

He should have been racing down to the barricade, filled with excitement and determination convinced that he will bring about a revolution that will transform France. But instead he is kneeling before a girl trying to decide how to say goodbye.

He leans over, moves her hair from her eyes and pecks her on the forehead.

When he leaves he doesn't turn back. He walks down to the café with a steely resolve. He is the strong one, he is their leader and he will not crack. By nightfall the barricades are erected and in the space of the small street his republic breathes life.

He leaves the watch to sleep that night and he can hear the voices of the boys as they drink and sing old French songs they learnt when they were young. When he closes his eyes he finally allows himself to think of the beautiful girl, her soft features, her short temper, how her tiny frame fits perfectly with his.

And when he sleeps he sees her smile, the one that forms when she is sleeping, he is doing this for her; he is doing this for her people.

He is their martyr and this is his cross to bear.


	3. Three

Most nights he returns to her, he haunts her. He makes it impossible for her to move on but then again she doesn't want to. She dreads the day when she closes her eyes and he doesn't appear in her dreams. Then she will lose the will to live.

She is no longer alive anymore, she lives in a daze. She lost everything that day. Sometimes she thinks of the boys who lost their lives and believes that she is suffering a worse fate as she has to live without them. She doesn't want to live without them, without him. She wishes she too died that day. She wishes she was dead.

She finds herself sitting by the river again. She sits up on the ledge. People avoid the girl who is precariously close to slipping into the icy depths. No one approaches her, no one tries to help. Everyone is so concerned living their own lives with their own problems, they don't spare a second for the pretty bourgeois girl by the river.

She is afraid to die. She is afraid he won't be in her heaven, that's all that stops her from jumping.

She barely eats anymore, she has no appetite and is beginning to resemble the girl who once lived on the streets, the girl he saved what seems like a lifetime ago. She feels empty and lost without him. Before they met she was perfectly content being alone. She was used to it. She had prepared herself for a lifetime of independence in which she was all that mattered.

He had to become a hero. He had to save her, he just had to make her totally and completely dependent on him and then he leave her.

Sometimes she hates him for it, he should have just let her be, she was fine on her own, she didn't need him but now he consumes her.

At night when she sleeps she feels his warm body next to hers. She feels him snake his arms around her waist and pull her closer to him as he buries his head in her hair. She feels his breath tickle the back of her neck. She feels his lips against hers, the way he would gently hold her and whisper how much he loves her. She can smell him, a mix of soap and smoke from the café it's so vivid that when she wakes she has forgotten about the failed revolution. She turns over, expecting to see his him sleeping next to her. She remembers how when he slept, it was the only time when he truly relaxed. His features were not pursed or furrowed and he looked his age. But the bed is empty and it is cold. She is harshly reminded that she will never wake up to him again.

She lies there for hours some days. She never got to say goodbye, she never got to tell him one more time how much she loved him. She woke up and he was gone. She knew he would never return. She lies in bed, completely frozen. She never through it was possible to miss someone so much that it aches. She hurts without him, she has become a shadow of what she once was and knows that he would have hated to see her like this. He would have wanted her to keep fighting, for liberty and equality. She feels like she is failing his revolution. He built a barricade, he stared a revolution and she can't even get out of bed.

The neighbours heard her sobs that morning and rushed in the room to find her screaming into the pillow. She hit them all away as their tried to comfort her. They were completely confused but the next day, as news broke of the failed revolution they understood. They still hear her cries but have stopped coming to help. When they see her in the corridor hey direct their eyes to the floor, they cannot understand her pain but they still pity the beautiful girl and the boy who had to be a hero.

Some days she opens his draws and sits down next to it, breathing in the smell of his clothes. She will never throw them out. She will never use them as night gowns. They will forever remain untouched in the draws. The apartment becomes a museum. His paper on the rise of guilds in Medieval France still lies unfinished on his desk, next to a half drunk cup of coffee which she has still not thrown out. She is unsure if she ever will.

Sometimes when she's in the marketplace she thinks she can hear him calling out her name. Her eyes dart the crowd looking for his face even though she knows he won't be there. Sometimes she likes to imagine that he escaped, that he's been taken in by some kind nuns who are nursing him back to health and that one day he'll arrive at the door to see her. But she knows that won't happen. She saw his bloody body hanging out the window of the café. They left it hanging there for days and all she wanted to do was tear it down. She was furious at how they degraded him how they paraded the bodies of the dead students through the streets of Paris, a warning to anyone else with revolutionary sentiment. She watched as each body passed, her friends, her lover and her brother.

She lost everything that day.

One day her neighbours smile encouragingly at her in the corridor. They had heard her voice, laughing through the thin walls of her apartment, they were happy to see her moving on but they were wrong.

She has begun reliving the time she spent with him in the apartment. She opens the door for him at three in the afternoon and lets him walk inside, she makes his favourite food and sometimes she sets a place for him at the table. She replays their conversation, laughs when they being to argue and she tells him how much she loves him.

It is the only time when she truly smiles.

At the end of the night she curls up next to him and when he tells her not to go out that night, she listens and she imagines how they would sit together in silence on the couch. She will forever regret those nights she chose to go to work, rather than stay home with him.

She knows she is losing her mind. She accepted it long ago. Imagining that he is with her is the only way she can survive the day.

She imagines what life would be like if the barricades were successful. She imagines kissing him goodbye in the morning when he leave to go to work as he sets about rewriting the French Constitution. She imagines him getting home and enthusiastically telling her about the developments they had made that day. And she would smile and nod and serve him dinner, she would tell him that she was proud, that they were all proud of him.

She imagines informing him that his parents are coming to town this weekend and wish to see him. She remembers the nights when he would tell her how they barely speak to him anymore. She likes to imagine that relationship being mended.

She is at the bakery one afternoon when she overhears a conversation between the attendant and a man, a foreigner from England. He asks the lady about these "student revolutionaries" and the woman laughs "Oh the usual, bourgeois boys trying to change the world."

Eponine tries, but cannot hold back. These boys were anything but the usual "How dare you" she snaps. The attendant and the man both look at the Mademoiselle who had a tongue like a gamine. "They fought for the men and women dying in the gutters. They fought to bring about equality and freedom for everyone, not just a privileged few" her voice is raised and people are beginning to stare at the girl "And perhaps if people like you had bothered to take up arms and fight alongside these men they would have changed the world."

The attendent's eyes narrow coldly at the girl "Obviously you didn't take up arms either mademoiselle."

Eponine leaves the store without buying anything. She is unsure when she began crying but by the time she reaches the river they have developed into sobs. People watch on nervously as the beautiful girl's shakes and screams, she has lost her mind, they can all see it but no one tries to help. They watch her climb the railings and sit on the edge of the bridge. They worry that she might jump but again no one moves. They watch, just like they watched the boys fight for their rights but never bothered to help.

These people disgusted her and she stands up on the ledge, she sways a little in the wind but manages to keep her balance. She closes her eyes and prepares to feel the icy water but something holds her back, it always does. What if she never sees him again?

At least in this life she knows she will see him again, every night when she closes her eyes. So she gets down from the ledge. She goes home and cooks dinner for them. Then she goes to sleep. In her dreams she feels so safe, so secure. His arms are wrapped around her and the heat from his body radiates through her.

She feels most alive when she is dreaming. She can no longer feel the pain, the sadness or the hate.

All she can feel is him, his love, his passion, his beauty and she never wants to wake up.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, please remember comments and constructive criticism is very much appreciated.


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